I just can’t stop reading good books recently. It’s some sort of lucky streak…that will most likely end now that I’ve pointed it out. Most recently, this weekend I finished The Birth of Venus, by Sarah Dunant.
This book reminded me a bit of The Floating Book. I love reading historical fiction set in Italy. Dunant sets The Birth of Venus in Florence during the Renaissance. Art is everywhere in this novel, and the main character’s love for the art surrounding her sucks the reader into loving it too. The Birth of Venus is to art as The Floating Book is to literature. We follow Alessandra Cecchi into a loveless (but companionable) marriage, and that storyline is good, but even better is the storyline around her. This female character is not so much concerned with the domestic life around her as she is the political changes in Florence. As the Medici family is ousted from power by a crazed and fanatical monk and his brainwashed followers, Alessandra’s love of art and passion for painting is forced to go further underground. Her passion and curiosity grow despite the fact that women are excluded more and more from public life.
This was the first Sarah Dunant book I’ve read. It seems she’s also a mystery writer, and while mystery novels are not usually at the top of my list, I definitely plan to look for her other works.
This seems to be my week for reviews...Okay, if you haven't read this book or heard about this book--especially if you're a woman--then you have to stop reading this blog and go buy it now. Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi, was supposed to be February's selection for my Mom's Club bookclub. My friend Rachel had a copy that I borrowed while visiting her in Charlotte recently. She told me I'd love it, and when it comes to books, I trust Rachel.
Soon after I started reading the book, which I immediately loved, my bookclub decided it was too difficult to read and picked a new book. I'm boycotting this month's meeting because of this decision, but of course I never actually go, so they won't miss me.
Read on for my review. I don't think I spoil anything.
In Reading Lolita, Nafisi took me into a world about which I knew very little. I vaguely remember the Iranian hostage crisis in 1980--my kindergarten class drew pictures to send to the freed hostages. I'm embarrassed now to admit how little I've paid attention to Iran. This book was eye-opening for me. It was also challenging. One night soon after I started reading it, Ike built a fire (in our fireplace. Well, duh.) and spent a couple of hours detailing Iranian history from the 1970s on (yes, I asked him to, and yes, it was quite romantic). I'm still fuzzy on some dates and names. For some reason, these are not details my brain chooses to keep. At any rate, Nafisi took names and places that were vague or completely unfamiliar to me and made them real.
Azar Nafisi is currently a professor at Johns Hopkins University, but Reading Lolita is her memoir of adulthood in Iran. The book is mostly her recollections from a secret literature class she taught in her home. After being expelled from her professor position at the University of Tehran for refusing to wear the veil, she formed a private class with several young women who had previously studied under her. The class often studied books banned by the government. In one poignant memory, she writes of the photocopied pages of a book some of the girls shared because they no longer had access to the books themselves. Her memoir shows its readers the ways these girls used the class as both a space to study literature and as a place to dream of a life of freedom.
I admit that Reading Lolita shamed, but also inspired, me because of how little I've read. I read constantly (well, every chance I get, anyway) and I think I choose high-quality books. But Nafisi refers to several classics in her memoir, and I was disturbed by how few of them I'd read. You know how so many people are talking of the shame Americans should feel for our lackluster involvement in elections after seeing how many Iraqis voted? It's similar for me. I have free and unobstructed access to so much terrific literature, and what's my excuse for not reading it??
When I started this book, a friend had loaned me three books I didn't want to read. All Danielle Steele. Yes, I know, you can save your comments on this one. I had no interest in reading these books, but felt like I should to avoid hurting my friend's feelings. However, when I began Reading Lolita, I realized that there's just too much good reading out there to waste my time on fluff. (By the way, I did read one of those Danielle Steele books. It didn't kill me, but I don't remember anything about it.)
"A novel is not an allegory...It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to empathize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this."
--Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran
After walking alone for the past two mornings and with Leslie twice a week for (almost) three weeks, I decided this morning I wanted something new. It's damn cold and dark at 6 am, so I decided to find something indoors. And this is what I found.
The show is Inhale on the Oxygen network, with yoga instructor Steve Ross in L.A. This is an interesting take on a yoga class for me, though I have very little experience with yoga classes in general (having only taken them through gyms in the past). The few classes I've taken were very calm and soothing...while also doing all the beneficial stretching stuff. In Inhale, Ross takes the class through several abbreviated Sun Salutations. Unlike the few class experiences I have with these exercises, Steve Ross's class seems to be more...vibrant. With each pose, class members are shaking their hips a little (and not just because of weak muscles as in my case) and smiling like it's not 6 am. Of course, for them it probably isn't. And they have no excess body weight. And they live in Los Angeles. Huh.
Okay, so right now as I'm remembering I feel kind of like a fat slob pretending to do some yoga. But really, this morning it was pretty inspiring and woke me up.
(So much for this review.)
For the past two mornings I've been walking in my neighborhood. I walk two miles, most of it in the dark, so it's probably not particularly safe for me to listen to a CD while I walk. Cars, stray dogs, etc. Anyway, if I don't listen to something, my feet don't move, so this is a review-ish of the funniest damn thing I've ever heard. Thanks to Leslie for the soundtrack.
Avenue Q is a Broadway musical, apparently quite a hit. It begins with a young puppet just out of college who is trying to find an apartment he can afford. He comes to an apartment building (located on Avenue Q, of course) where several puppets are arguing over whose life sucks the most. Not to give it all away, but let me tell you, I agree that it would suck to have people say, "What you talkin' 'bout Willis?" everywhere I went.
In listening to this soundtrack (and I suppose in seeing the musical, if you had the chance), you follow these puppets through all the things so many of us went through not too long ago. What do you do with a useless college degree (women's studies, anyone?)? Making a mix tape for someone does mean you like them...right? And it's true that everyone's a little bit racist, whether they admit it or not. Even Gary Coleman.
And it's true, we all know what the internet is really for.
It's worth checking out. Here's the official website.
If it’s true that home is where the heart is and that home is where we go for sanctuary, then I have recently lost a home. In all actuality, this home has been gone for at least a year, but I only found out about it today. Silk Road Teahouse in Chapel Hill is no more.
I loved college, but there are very few things I miss about it. I’ve found throughout life that I’m always happiest now—whenever that now happens to be. In college, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Being a stay-at-home-mom with a husband I love in our first house—now this is the happiest time of my life.
That being said, I miss two things about Chapel Hill very much. (I should say three, actually, as I also really miss being able to sleep all day and skip my responsibilities whenever I want.) The first thing is Jeff’s Confectionary, a small store on Franklin Street that had the best fountain Cokes ever. You could get them with cherry, vanilla, or chocolate. I used to pick one up every day on my way in to work at Whims Cards & Gifts, and if I was running late, Ike picked one up for me (which is one of the many reasons I married him). Jeff’s closed the year after I graduated.
The second thing I miss was also a place on Franklin Street, but it was further away from campus (and therefore further away from all the shit involved when 20,000 students convene on a street). Silk Road Teahouse. I remember the first time I visited Silk Road. I was with a close friend, a woman I still love and respect, named Rachel and her boyfriend Jeff (now her husband, also a person for whom I have a deep amount of respect). We went armed with books and ideas. They had been before and knew I would love it.
And did I ever love it…The restaurant served Turkish and middle eastern fare (I think it did, anyway, I’m not sure I ever ate the food) along with every flavor and type of tea I could have imagined. Alongside a few beautiful wooden tables, the floor was covered with throw pillows and rugs. Small tables were flanked by these pillows, upon which people sat or lay drinking tea, reading novels, talking to friends. I sat with Rachel and Jeff at one of these tables for hours that passed in minutes.
And then I went back. Yet another close friend, Heather, accompanied me the next time. I have journal entries about my frequent visits with Heather. Heather and I solved the world’s problems and avoided much studying while at Silk Road. The intimidating man with long red hair behind the counter flirted with Heather, who also has long red hair. I think we wanted to try a new tea each time we went, but I’m pretty sure we never got close to trying them all. Once we brought along a friend (who shall remain nameless, though I love her) who just didn’t get it. Sitting on the floor? Drinking tea?
But it was magical. It was the back of the wardrobe for my friends and me. When we walked through the glass doors of Silk Road, hearing the bells jingle above us, we became the dreamweavers and the magic makers. We were the poets, the philosophers, and the ones who mattered most.
The last time I visited Silk Road Teahouse was also with Heather. This time I was no longer in college, but instead now had a one-year-old son. I was exhausted all the time then and still somewhat unsure of my footing as a mother. Jake and I spent the day with Heather in Chapel Hill and Carrboro, and ended the evening at Silk Road. And yet again, it was a magical place. Jake loved it for the colorful rugs and pictures, as well as the wide open spaces. I loved it for the tea and conversation. I loved that once again, Heather and I could be queens of our own reality. I relaxed into myself, something that I did not do often at that early stage of motherhood.
Today I read that Silk Road was replaced by what seems to be a great restaurant. I believe it even has the same owners, though I can’t say I paid a lot of attention to the article after I read that Silk Road was no longer open. No matter how wonderful the restaurant may be, I can’t help feeling I’ve lost a home. The back of the wardrobe is only wood.
When did it happen that I became such a girl? Disclaimer: Ike said this sounded sad, but I promise I didn’t mean to be pitiful.
Biologically, I understand, I was born this way. From what I’ve been led to believe, my mother birthed a girl. I’ve always peed sitting down.
But when did I stop sweating and start perspiring? When did I stop getting dirty?
Case in point: tonight after a few hours of coffee with good friends (who are strong and to whom I am indebted forever and ever amen), aforementioned great friends walked me to my car (because I am a small girly woman). One of these incredible friends pointed out my flat tire. “Do you have a jack?” asked other amazing friend. Hmm…well, I knew what a jack looked like…and 20 minutes later (plus 5 or 6 phone calls to Ike—who was stuck home with a sleeping Jake—to ask about the damn thing), I found it. Ok, aforementioned friend with goddesslike powers found it. Then these wonderful beings who walk the earth dressed as humans but who are really celestial in nature…and who let me call them friends…changed my tire.
When it was all said and done, they both had dirty hands and probably will wake up with backaches. I…well, I was uncomfortably cold and came home whiney (but clean). Ike built a fire (thereby also getting his hands dirty) while I sat on the couch.
Now the thing is, I used to be a tomboy. No, really, it’s true. I climbed and ran and fought and played Tarzan (but never Jane). I remember my mom nagging me about my fingernails being grimy. I had a couple of dolls, but mostly I just remember playing outside with the boys. I never had an Easy Bake oven, and when a well-meaning relative gave me a kitchen set, my mom gave it away. She didn’t want me to think I had to cook just because I was a girl (of course, it took me years to be able to cook and I blame her—I’ll write about that another time).
Actually, it’s not really a mystery to me when I went from ruling the world to baking the world cookies (figuratively, as I had no stove…thanks Mom). I became a girly girl when I was eight. One day, while playing Tarzan (I was Boy and my best friend Darren was Tarzan—he hit harder, so he won the best role), I was reprimanded for what seemed a completely random thing.
“Becky,” said my babysitter, “You need to put that shirt back on.”
“But Darren took his off, too!”
“That’s different. He’s a boy. Little girls shouldn’t run around naked.”
Ohhhh. Darren and I are different? He’s a boy, yes, but I’m a boy too, right? Wait…I’m a girl? But girls are boring and do stupid things like play house…
But you know the rest. Boy meets Girl, Girl realizes she never was a Boy, Girl becomes Girly Girl. Eventually I caved. I put my shirt back on. I started playing Jane, or (now that Darren ALSO realized I was a girl) “mommy” while he played “daddy.” I got more Barbies. I started wearing makeup (okay, that actually only started a year or so ago). I let someone else change my tires.
But wait. I have girlfriends who change tires. And I’m not that good at wearing makeup, but I have friends who can put together their faces and their clothes like…well, like girls. Where do I fit? Inbetweenish? What’s the place for the girl who can’t quite do anything right?
I guess she stands in the cold and worships her friends. Thanks, guys.